


worship in the bedroom (command me)

by Butterfly



Series: go on as three [6]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Corsetry, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Play, Enthusiastic Consent, Kink Negotiation, Multi, Overstimulation, Pegging, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Spitroasting, and eliot's weird forced marriage with fen, except that most of s2 as written doesn't exist, mild breathplay, once you remove quentin's plotline with alice, set fuzzily somewhere in s2, so it is very fuzzily set in s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 16:33:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19398046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterfly/pseuds/Butterfly
Summary: Even just standing there, Eliot exudes this- this classic rakish grace. The kind that nineteenth-century novelists could spend entire chapters trying and failing to describe. A dark curl lays across his forehead, embroidered and heavily-layered clothing outlines his shoulders and waist, there's that tempting cleft in his chin Quentin wants to kiss. Eliot and Margo are just... effortlessly beautiful every moment of every day. Even when they're so drunk they can barely stand up, they manage to do it elegantly.





	worship in the bedroom (command me)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Take Me To Church" by Hozier.

“The mirror isn't negotiable?” Quentin asks, tugging at his sleeves. He _wants_ to do this, with a sharp ache that surprises him, but it's- it's a lot to think about, the idea of seeing himself that way. Of Margo and Eliot seeing him that way.

“Of course, it is. Anything can be negotiated if we need to,” Eliot says, as he twists a hand to telekinetically shift the mirror slightly to the left. “But let's try talking out your concerns first, okay?”

“I get that you want to-” Quentin hesitates, then plunges forward. “That- that there's a whole visual thing you're trying to do. Which I totally respect.”

“But?” Margo asks, not looking up from the desk where she's leafing through a thick book – one of the local Fillorian fantasy anthologies that Quentin had found in the castle library a while back and that Margo had claimed immediately, so Quentin himself still hadn't gotten the chance to read it. “You need to actually get to your objection at some point, turtledove.”

“I know,” Quentin says. And it comes out on a slight whine which is... embarrassing. “Ugh, I just- um, I don't really want to think about the way my face probably looks when I- you know. I mean, it's ugly enough when-”

There's a light thump as Margo tosses the book onto the table. She and Eliot exchange looks, and Quentin sighs.

“You don't have to-”

“Quentin, what don't you like about your face?” Eliot asks, and his voice is so gentle that Quentin kinda wants to rewind the entire conversation and start over.

“I mean. It's-” Quentin falls backwards onto the bed so that he doesn't have to look at them. “It's kinda-um. Shaped like a foot?”

“Like a...” Margo lays down next to him. “Like a _foot_?”

Her tone is utterly incredulous, like he'd just said Fillory counts as steam-punk or something equally as bizarre, and that... maybe is better than anything specific she could have said to counter it.

“Well. It's kinda- a weird rectangle. And my forehead is really- um. Square? And my brow kinda protrudes out like, I don't know, a neanderthal sort of look. You know?” Quentin peeks out. Eliot is standing in front of him, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrow raised dramatically.

And that's- that's the thing, isn't it. Even just standing there, Eliot exudes this- this classic rakish grace. The kind that nineteenth-century novelists could spend entire chapters trying and failing to describe. A dark curl lays across his forehead, embroidered and heavily-layered clothing outlines his shoulders and waist, there's that tempting cleft in his chin Quentin wants to kiss. Eliot and Margo are just... effortlessly beautiful every moment of every day. Even when they're so drunk they can barely stand up, they manage to do it elegantly.

He knows they're attracted to him. Even Eliot and Margo, as secretly kind as they are, wouldn't go as far as they'd gone over the last few weeks if they weren't genuinely attracted to him.

But there's a huge difference between being a cute nerd and being _pretty_.

“You may not have noticed this,” Eliot says, and he picks Quentin up by the ass and manhandles him backwards on the bed. Quentin blinks in surprise. Eliot crawls onto the bed, tucks himself between Quentin's thighs. “But I have a big nose. It felt even bigger when I was a kid, like it took up my whole face.”

“I like your nose,” Quentin says. It's as perfect as everything else is about Eliot's face.

“I always wanted bigger tits,” Margo sighs, leaning her head against his shoulder. She pokes him in the arm. “Coldwater, tell me you like my tits.”

“You already know I-” Quentin wraps his legs around Eliot's waist, thinks a moment. “Okay, I get it. You don't think my face looks like a foot.”

“Or maybe we're about to confess to a foot fetish, _you_ don't know,” Margo says, archly. She rubs his arm. “If you're feeling nervy, we don't have to do this tonight. We can take it slowly. Or in pieces.”

“Ugh, no. That's not what I-” Quentin reaches over, touches Margo's hair. “You both promised you'd fuck me tonight and I want- I _want_ it.” He takes in a deep breath, lets it out. “And I want- um. I want to wear the corset and the- the eyeliner and do the- I just- I just keep thinking you'll think I look silly and you'll- and there's only one way to prove my brain wrong about that. I have to- uh. Actually do it.”

“Okay, then let's go over the plan,” Eliot says, and there's something faintly ridiculous, still, about the idea of sex being planned out in detail before it happens, but Quentin's getting used to it. It seems to cut down on the awkward fumbling mid-act that had happened so often in his past. “Do you want to veto the mirror?”

Quentin boosts himself up onto his elbows, looks past Eliot, at the enormous full-length mirror. Quentin's still moderately dressed-up, not fancy like Eliot and Margo always are, but unmistakably Fillorian. Hair in his face. Nothing exciting to look at and he honestly doesn't understand the appeal but- but it's something that Eliot and Margo want, and Quentin wants to try, at least. “The mirror can stay.”

“That's my brave boy,” Margo says, and Quentin can feel himself flushing. It's probably not a super-great thing, how praise from Margo and Eliot affects him so much these days, since it definitely _also_ works outside the bedroom, but he can't quite bring himself to regret it. He sinks back down to the bed and just lays there a minute, Margo curled up next to him. Eliot's hands are on his thighs, just stroking lightly. It's nice, almost calming.

“We could do it like this,” Quentin says, thoughtfully. He can picture it, almost, Margo straddling his hips while Eliot spreads his legs wide. “Margo's short enough that I would still see Eliot, too.”

“I do love a good cowgirl,” Margo says. “You want me to fuck you on your back, too?”

“Yeah, I actually-” Quentin licks his lips, says, quickly as he can manage, “Uh- I could- I could- maybe try to blow El. While you're fucking me.” He lifts a hand, tilts it down, twists it sideways. “Like... with my head over the edge of the bed?”

“You've been thinking about this a lot,” Eliot says. He sounds like he approves. “And, before that, we'll have the mirror. But like Bambi said, if you're feeling it might be too much, let us know and we can move things along.” Quentin gives a quick nod. Eliot's smile is soft and his fingers curl around Quentin's thighs briefly. “Ready for your glamour session?”

“Yeah, okay. Let's do it.”

Quentin takes his clothes off while the two of them bustle around getting all the- the props together. Margo untangling the harness and checking the- the strap-on she's going to use. Eliot unwrapping the corset. Margo sorting through her makeup kit. Eliot shedding his own clothes, too.

When they're both naked, Eliot tugs him into the bathroom for a quick shower. Quentin is able to steal some kisses, but Eliot is focused on the business of getting Quentin clean, so a handful of kisses is as far as it goes.

Then comes the first part that makes Quentin nervous.

Eliot talks him through it, the careful way the spell outlines certain parts of the body before it removes hair in the marked areas. It'll hurt a little, Eliot warns, and there is- there's a definite sting on his chest and stomach and legs and thighs, the pain sharper closer to his dick. Afterward, Eliot rubs a soothing oil into Quentin's skin and any lingering ache fades away and he's-

Pretty much entirely smooth from the neck down. Eliot had left the hair on his arms, but that was about it. It feels... strange, and he feels oddly smaller. When his thighs press together, they feel slick from the oil.

Quentin risks a glance up at Eliot, who smiles at him, eyes dark.

“Do you need a minute in here alone?” Eliot reaches past Quentin, grabbing a silky blue robe and draping it around himself. “To get used to how it feels?”

“That... would be nice,” Quentin admits.

So Eliot leaves, closes the door behind himself with a click.

There's a long mirror in here, too, of course, because it had been Eliot's suite, originally, before it had sorta become their shared space. Quentin can't quite look at himself all at once, covers his dick with one hand and angles himself before he glances at his reflection. He doesn't- doesn't look _that_ different without body hair. He looks maybe- maybe more like guys in porn, though he doesn't have the body, of course, but- that stuff that Eliot put on his skin is a little shiny, still. Hesitantly, he pulls his hand away.

He rubs over his chest, runs his fingertips over his nipple, circles it for a brief moment and it feels more sensitive than normal, maybe because of the oil. Slides his hand further down his stomach and that does feel strange, moving his hand like he's going for his cock but feeling only bare skin instead of a trail of hair. He pulls his hand away before he reaches his dick.

Eliot hadn't left a robe for Quentin.

Naked, then, Quentin opens the door and strides through, his thighs gliding together skin-against-skin in an unfamiliar way. Margo and Eliot are chatting in front of the mirror as Margo – now dressed in a shimmery gold and red dressing gown that hits her mid-thigh – fluffs up her hair.

They don't immediately turn to look at him, which is a relief. He heads towards them, and there's a stool in front of Eliot, so that's- that's where he goes. He sits down on it, bare-assed, half-away from the mirror. Eliot's hand presses against his neck and Quentin looks up, meets his steady gaze. Eliot twirls his other hand in the air and Quentin hesitates a heartbeat and then nods, turns himself on the stool so that he's facing the mirror head-on. Eliot is directly behind him and Margo comes up on his right side, leans against him. He shivers when the fabric of her robe brushes his skin.

“Ready?” Margo asks.

“Ready,” Quentin says. His stomach flips over, calling him a liar. He focuses on Eliot's hand on his neck, Margo's body pressed against his arm. Looks up and meets his own worried eyes in the mirror. 

And that's- that's him, all right, as naked as he's ever been.

Looking is just step one of the mirror part of the whole plan so Quentin shifts on the stool. Spreads his legs. He feels himself start to overbalance, but Eliot steadies him. Quentin reaches down, strokes his soft smooth stomach, takes his dick in hand. He's slightly hard, but anxiety's kept him from getting too turned on. That's okay. This part isn't about coming, not really. Just about-

Before he loses his nerve, he starts jerking off. Fast, almost harsh to start, but slowing down once he feels himself stiffening under his fingers. It's so fucking strange to stare into his own eyes while he does this, but when he rocks a little on the stool, and Eliot presses against him to keep him from falling, he can feel the hard line of Eliot's dick against his back and- okay, okay.

That makes it easier.

It's not for him, it's for them.

Quentin arches up, leans his shoulders back against Eliot, lets out a shaky moan. They like it when he's loud. They like it when he's messy. He can do this. He knows what they like.

Now that he has that fixed in his mind, he makes it a little fancier. Rubs his thumb over the head, adds a twist as he tugs, bucks his hips up, trusting Eliot to keep him safe. He reaches down with his other hand, cups his balls, slips his fingers down to rub against his hole. He doesn't quite have the courage to try to finger himself while balancing on a stool, but he can hear Margo's breathing go unsteady when he teases the skin outside.

One shoulder of her dressing gown has slipped, and he can see the upper slope of her breast in the mirror. His gaze lingers there for a moment before he makes himself look back at his own face, his own eyes again. His cheeks are pink and Eliot, behind him, looks flushed too. One particularly forceful rock almost takes Quentin off the stool and Eliot loops an arm around his chest, securing him.

Quentin had been expecting it to take more time, but he's already teetering on the edge. He stills his hands, asks, trembling, “Can I...?”

“Go on, honey,” Margo says. Her hand reaches up to hold his chin in place, keeps him facing straight ahead. “We'd like to see.”

His face- his face gets really red when he comes. His jaw shakes and his mouth quivers. He's never known that before. His eyebrows raise upward, like he's shocked by it.

His come ends up on his hands and his stomach and a little bit on Eliot's arm. Margo lets go of his face and she doesn't- doesn't have to ask him to do anything, he just lifts his hand up to his mouth and licks. Watches himself do it, tongue sneaking out, lapping up the white streaks. Eliot kisses the top of his head and Quentin can see – in the mirror, he can see the way Eliot's eyes close when he does that, the way he nuzzles into it.

After Quentin's cleaned off, they have him get off the stool, on shaky legs. 

He's nervous about this next part, too, or he was, but his orgasm took the edge off his nerves. He holds his hands out to the side, and Eliot and Margo wrap the glossy blue fabric around him. She'd said it would have silver to match his crown, and he'd assumed she just meant the trimming, but the swooping embroidered designs on the corset have the same flowing shapes too. It would- he thinks it would have looked beautiful on either of them. He's not sure how it's going to end up looking on him.

Margo does up the buttons on the front. Or- it has a different name, he's pretty sure, but he doesn't remember what she called it last time. “El's going to start now,” she says. Warns. “It shouldn't hurt, so if it does, you tell us right away.”

Quentin manages a nod, and then he feels the first tug and-

and-

“Oh,” he says, in the tiniest voice. It reminds him of El's hands on his waist, holding him in place. Eliot pauses for a moment, then when Quentin doesn't say anything else, there's another tug. Quentin bites down on his lip. He sways into the next yank, and Eliot places a warm hand on his back, above where the corset ends.

“You need to stay still for me, sweetheart,” Eliot says, as he continues. “Like when you get a haircut.”

“Q, you're liking this part more than we expected,” Margo says, stroking the panels of fabric on his sides for a moment. “Bring us into your head. Tell us why.”

Quentin takes a breath in, deep as he can. It doesn't feel quite as deep as normal. He's not sure if that's the corset already or if it's just in his head. “Um. It's like- it's like- like Eliot's hands are- I can feel his hands. I know they aren't- uh, they aren't there. On my waist, on my- my ribcage. But I can feel them.”

Margo looks up and past him – at Eliot, who hasn't stopped tightening the ribbons.

“Of course,” she says, softly. “El's in charge, right now, isn't he? As long as the corset's on, you don't decide how much you breathe, El does.” Her gaze flits down again, over his body. “Don't get lost in the feeling just yet, Q.” She places a hand on the line of buttons covering his stomach, watches her hand move with his breaths.

A short while later, she says, “I think that's good.”

“Wha- wait,” Quentin says, tripping over his words. “Keep- keep going. Please.”

He can see the difference in the mirror already, his torso beginning to show a curve where it had always been angles and lines. Margo looks up again, at Eliot, and this time Quentin follows her movement in the mirror, staring at Eliot's reflection.

Eliot looks thoughtful. Like he's considering Quentin's request. He feels Eliot's hand pressed against his back and he stays still, obedient, like Eliot had asked before. “We should be cautious, the first few times,” Eliot says, but he hasn't pulled his hand away yet. “We don't want you to faint while Margo's pegging you.”

A startled breath punches out of Quentin's lungs.

“You're- you're _into_ that,” Margo says, and she sounds surprised. “You wanna be fucked so hard you pass out, little Q?”

Quentin swallows hard, twice. Manages a barely audible “yeah” as he tries to keep himself from falling backwards against Eliot's body.

“Definitely too soon to try anything like that,” Eliot says. He sounds half-breathless himself, and Quentin can feels Eliot's hands against the corset and Quentin _hopes_... but then, after a moment, Eliot moves away. Oh, he was tying the ribbons off. “But we'll- uh. We'll put it on the table to talk about later, okay?"

Quentin just nods. He's not sure he _can_ talk, right now.

He gets put back onto the stool for the next part. When Margo had done this to him the last time, it had been little brushes and turning his face to the light and he'd felt like he was suffocating by the end under the weight of it all. This time, it's quick and simple, just her fingers, stroking soft and easy on his mouth and around his eyes. His lips tingle afterwards. She holds her hand out to the side and Eliot places Quentin's crown in her palm. She tugs at his hair, brushes it back and then sets the crown on his head. Her robe is thin, and he can see the dark circles of her nipples pushing against the fabric. 

Margo does that tut that she did the first time, the one that locks the makeup into place, and then she circles around him, presses herself up against his back, kisses his shoulder. “Go on, King Quentin the Beautiful,” she says, sweet and soft. “Take a look.”

His eyes look bigger, startled almost. His mouth- it looks less like he's wearing lipstick and more like he just finished giving a blowjob, reddened and kind of swollen. Margo's put some half-turn into his hair, so that it's down but not blocking his face, and the crown anchors that in place, keeps it from falling forward.

The corset- when Margo had worn one for them, it had been hot, but not really _that_ much more than her clothes usually were. It had mostly just been another fancy outfit for him to admire.

Now, though, he can feel it every time he breathes, and it makes him think of Eliot's hands and Margo's voice and he shivers when he looks at it in the mirror. At himself in it. He has a feeling he's not going to have any trouble getting hard a second time to screw Margo.

“Better than last time?” Eliot asks, petting at Quentin's shoulders. He seems deeply pleased at Quentin's breathy little “uh-huh”, one of his hands sliding down to rub over Quentin's nipple and then tease at the top of the corset. “Ready to meet Margo's friend?”

“Her _what_?”

But what Eliot means becomes pretty obvious when Margo goes to the desk and picks the rainbow dildo up by the base and waggles it at Quentin, complete with over-exaggerated eyebrow movements. “So, Q, this is my new pal, Robin, and she's going up your ass in, like, half an hour. It's _her_ first time, too, so be gentle."

“That's what you got on our trip back to Earth?” Quentin asks, but it shouldn't be surprising. This is Margo, after all. “When did you even have time? I was with you, almost the whole-”

“Except-”

“Except when I was helping Jules and Kady,” Quentin finishes. Yeah, that _had_ been a few hours, plenty of time for Margo to peruse the shelves or- whatnot. He's still kinda sad that Julia hadn't wanted to come back to Fillory with him but she's happier now, at least, and Kady will make sure she stays that way. “Is that why you didn't want to come along?”

“No, I just don't like them,” Margo says, matter-of-factly. “I know Julia's your friend again, sweetie, but, to me, she's always gonna be the bitch who almost killed you because her feelings got bruised.”

“Bambi,” Eliot says, a light warning in his tone. But it's not like it's a _shock_ to learn that Eliot told Margo all about the Scarlotti's Web incident. Eliot tells Margo everything. Or at least as much as he ever tells anyone. “We respect Quentin's choice of friends.” 

“Ugh, fine, whatever.” Margo rolls her eyes and pouts, showy and theatrical. “If we must.”

“We must.” Eliot is massaging Quentin's shoulders now, and he leans down and kisses Quentin's temple. “Do you want to feel up Robin?”

“Are we really going to do the name thing?” Quentin asks, but he reaches out, runs a finger over the dildo. It gives under the pressure, but not much. Less than a real dick, anyway. It bulges out a little at the end and overall it's- it's bigger than Quentin is, definitely smaller than Eliot. “Because I was kinda hoping I would get fucked by, you know. Margo.” He makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger, slides it down the dildo experimentally. He looks up and Margo is smirking at him, immensely pleased with herself.

“I am gonna fuck you _real_ hard,” she says, and she yanks the dildo out of his hand, turns back and sets it next to the harness on the desk before giving him a hard look. “But first, you wanted to make sure I came before you got dicked down, right, Q honey?” She tugs at the tie on her dressing gown, letting it fall open. “So how about you get on the floor and make that happen, huh?”

So Quentin hops off the stool, carefully gets down on his knees in front of her. He pushes the fabric away, leans in to nuzzle against the soft skin of her inner thigh. Like- like him right now, she doesn't have hair on her legs, but there's a dark mess of curls on her mound, right above her clit. She didn't say not to use his hands, so he spreads the folds of her labia, presses his mouth against her. He doesn't lick or suck right away, wants to enjoy the- the stillness here, the smell and taste of her cunt, wet already.

She doesn't put her fingers in his hair, like she normally would, but- _oh_ yeah, he remembers. She did his hair up fancy and he's got his crown on, so that he can be... be pretty for them. His knees are cold on the hard stone floor, but Margo is so so warm. He kisses her clitoris, presses the flat of his tongue against her. He teases his fingertips down to her entrance, pauses a moment to see if she has any specific instructions. She doesn't say anything, so he slides two fingers inside. She's soaked and it's easy and he loves her for it so much. He has to- to lean into her with his whole body, the corset making it harder for him to bend, and he really- he really hopes she likes the way it looks on him as much as she'd thought she would.

Quentin indulges himself, finger-fucks her slowly, keeps his mouth gentle for now. He takes his time.

He hadn't gotten the chance to do this to a lot of girls, before Margo. Most of the girls he'd been with, before, had been more- more like him. Kinda insecure. Worrying about whether or not they smell good or taste good or if they're being weird or selfish by asking for what they want. Margo doesn't worry about any of that – or, if she does, she never mentions it.

Margo is- is _shameless_ about being selfish and demanding. She's told him how to use his mouth, shown him where to put his fingers, had him leave red marks on her skin because she thinks it's hot.

And that means he knows what she likes, in a way that he's not sure he's ever actually _known_ about a woman before. He isn't fumbling around trying to do his best with her, because she's taught him how to make her happy.

He pulls his fingers out of her, slides his hands around to her ass, encourages her to rock against his face as he licks down to kiss her, open and messy. The spell will keep the makeup intact, so he doesn't worry about it, rubs his face against her skin, knowing that she'll enjoy the rasp of his stubble. The certainty grounds him, and he digs his fingers into her skin, hard enough to hurt but only barely. He gets rough with her, and she bucks against him, and he can feel her hand briefly touch the top of his head before she yanks it away again. He smiles against her skin, keeps going until he can feel her shaking around his tongue.

Then Quentin sits back on his heels and looks up at her, licking the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, look at you, my sweet little boy,” Margo coos, and he flushes under the weight of her attention. “You stay just like that, okay, honey?” She takes a step back, glances past him – at Eliot, who comes around Quentin, running a hand along his back and shoulders as he passes by. Quentin stays still and he watches as Margo sticks the dildo into the black harness, steps into the tangle of straps. Eliot's hands on Margo's body, adjusting the fit, pulling it into place over her pelvis, hiding her clit from view. Eliot's hand teases the end of the dildo, slides over the shaft, jerking it off.

Eliot brushes Margo's hair off her shoulder and drops a kiss on the curve of her neck. Says, “Hey, Q, get over here and suck Bambi's dick.” Margo giggles, pushes at Eliot's arm, but then she makes a tiny come-hither hand gesture and blows him a kiss, so Quentin shuffles forward on his knees, closes his eyes and presses his mouth against the head of the dildo.

It's – kinda fucking weird, honestly, because it doesn't really taste like anything and it's pretty much room-temperature and now that his mouth is on it, he can feel that it isn't smooth like he'd thought, but has a bumpy texture to it. Apart from the general shape and size, it kinda doesn't feel like a cock at all. He opens his mouth over it, takes the head inside, sucks at it thoughtfully. He uses his tongue to press it against the roof of his mouth, slides down until it bumps against the back of his throat.

He feels Eliot's fingers cupping his face, so he blinks his eyes open, looks up.

Eliot and Margo are staring at him and he feels a surge of relief because- because they look like they think it's hot, not like he's making a fool out of himself. So Quentin sucks harder, hollowing out his cheeks, pulls back, then bobs his head down again. He's getting used to the feel of it.

Quentin startles when it gets abruptly taken away, Margo pulling it out and Eliot's hand keeping him from following it with his mouth.

“Let's save some of that for _my_ dick, huh?” Eliot brushes his knuckles over Quentin's lips. “Okay, stand up, sweetheart.”

Eliot holds his hand out and Quentin takes it gratefully, still feels himself wobble a little as he gets to his feet. Eliot leads him to the bed, lifts him up and puts him on his back, stroking along the panels of the corset after Quentin is settled. His head is near the foot of the bed, and his ass is propped up on a pillow. Quentin spreads his legs, squirms a little against the sheets, which feel more- more silky than he remembers.

“You wanted to blow me while Bambi fucks you,” Eliot says, as if there was a chance Quentin might have forgotten, like Eliot doesn't _know_ how much Quentin wants to suck Eliot's dick like- like all the time. “That means your mouth will be too busy to let us know if she hurts you. So, I think we're gonna have you hold your legs up for us. If you need her to slow down or stop, let go and we'll check in, okay?”

“Drop my legs if I stop liking it,” Quentin says, because they want him to repeat these things, prove he's listening. “Got it.” Eliot's robe is only loosely tied, and he can see the shape of El's dick, can see a small but growing wet spot where the head is, making the fabric cling. And then Eliot tugs him forward, so that his shoulders are on the edge of the bed.

Quentin feels Margo's hands sliding up his legs and he lifts up his head and looks – Margo smirks at him, kisses his knee. He's starting to get hard again, but she ignores his cock, her wet fingers pressing down against his asshole.

He lets his head fall back down, off the edge, stares up the length of Eliot's body, hears a muted clang as his crown gives up the fight against gravity and lands on the floor. This still feels like a fever-dream, sometimes, impossible in every possible way. Eliot leans forward, the robe parting as he does, and Quentin can see El's balls, heavy and tight, and his big cock above them, and Quentin's breath catches in his throat. Eliot guides his hands into place under his own knees, tugging them up to expose him to Margo. He focuses on his grip, not wanting to let go by accident.

If he lifts his head up again, not too far, he can kiss Eliot right there, where his ballsac hangs down. He can lick and suck, let them fill up his mouth. He can- the possibilities are dizzying.

Instead, Quentin makes himself breathe in and out, as deeply as he can manage, feels the echo of Eliot's hands around his chest and stomach, does his best to wait for Eliot to decide to give it to him.

Margo isn't rough, but she's not especially gentle either, pushing in deliberately, steadily. Goal-oriented, that's Margo, and he shivers when she crooks her fingers and finds his prostate. And Quentin has been- he's trying to be patient, but he can't help it, says. Begs, “El, can I- I wanna suck you, can I-?”

Eliot pats his cheek, says, “Soon, baby boy.”

Quentin wriggles on the bed as Margo adds another finger, pants as he feels the edges of the corset against his skin. Eliot bends over, picks up Quentin's crown, goes over to put it away on the shelf. Quentin stares after him longingly, and his hands feel slippery in the bend of his knees. “Margo, keep- keep going, I just need to-” and he lets his legs go for a moment so that he can wipe his palms off against the sheets, get a more secure hold.

When Eliot comes back to the bed, he slides his left hand under Quentin's shoulders, twists his right hand, and Quentin can feel himself being lifted up by nothing except Eliot's magic. Eliot strokes over his neck and Quentin shudders, relaxes into it.

He parts his lips, resists the urge to beg again.

Margo's fingers slide out of him and she strokes the base of his dick, cups his balls gently. Then he feels a wet, blunt force pushing against his hole, and he hears Margo say, “That's it, breathe for me,” and there's a stretch that makes him shut his eyes, but then he shudders and he can feel- feel the head of it, at least, sitting inside him. He feels skin press against his mouth and he licks out instinctively, and the taste of Eliot is unmistakable on his tongue.

Eliot's hand rests warm against his throat and he's- he's pressing his dick through Quentin's lips at the same time that Margo is easing inside his ass and it's- Quentin digs his fingers into his legs, presses his knees against his torso, breathes through his nose. Margo's strap-on feels a _lot_ bigger than her fingers had, but she must have slathered it with lube, because it slides in wet and smooth. He can feel that- that bumpy texture on it, as it rubs inside him, and he's not sure how he feels about it.

There's an ache, as she goes deeper, but faint and dull enough that it's easy to push aside and focus on- on her hands on his thighs, on Eliot's dick filling up his mouth, on Eliot holding him in place.

He can hear- Eliot and Margo are talking to each other, but Quentin can't make out the words, fuzzy and indistinct. El's dick hits the back of his throat, and Quentin does his best to- to relax, open up. Eliot's fingers stroke at the curve of his neck, up over his adam's apple. Eliot slides into his throat and Margo's hips press against him.

She tugs at- at the corset, pets her fingers down the front. He can feel it through the fabric, distantly. He can feel El's balls pressing against his nose. It's a strange, weightless moment that feels tense and fragile at the same time. Margo and Eliot start to pull out, and Quentin shivers as the world comes rushing back in.

Eliot leaves the tip of his cock in Quentin's mouth, while Margo starts- starts fucking him, with even, practiced thrusts. He does his best not to clench up around her – he remembers they'd talked about that, about how it might make it too hard for her to keep moving – and he sucks lightly on El's cock, presses his tongue against the slit. Every few strokes, Margo hits his prostate, but it's not regular enough for him to get used to it, and he shudders each time it happens.

Eliot nudges deeper into his mouth again, and Quentin- when he's talked to Eliot about it, he never quite manages to explain why he likes it so much, the stretch of his mouth around El's cock, the salty almost-bitterness of it, the way it makes Eliot fill up his whole world. Eliot fucks into his mouth and Quentin feels small and grateful and greedy. If El and Margo let- let Quentin do this for the rest of his life, that would- okay, it's an impractical thought, he admits that, but Quentin whimpers as he pictures it, his mouth wet and red and filled with El's dick or licking into Margo's pussy and he doesn't ever have to think about anything that isn't about making them happy.

Margo hits his prostate again and Quentin rolls into it, his throat contracting around Eliot as he tries to moan at the sharp pleasure. Like when they finger him, he's hit the point where it stops feeling weird and it turns into the same kind of selfish joy he finds in using his mouth, where a part of him still- still feels like he's taking advantage of them, tricking them into making him feel this giddy happiness during sex that he's never felt before, but Margo is- is a bad influence on him, probably, because the selfishness makes him want it even _more_ now, instead of shying away from it.

They like him messy and loud, but even more than that, they like him eager. Desperate for it.

He knows what they like.

When El pulls out of his mouth, Quentin stretches his neck to try to reach El's dick again, already wanting him buried back inside. Margo is moving faster now and it feels good and _full_ , and she's bracing her hands on his stomach, pushing down against the fabric of the corset as she thrusts. She's grunting from the effort and he wishes he could see her face, but it's- his current view, Eliot's dick and his balls, the curve of his ass and the clinging fabric of that fancy blue robe, that's good too. Eliot's hand moves off his throat and Quentin whines, disappointed.

Margo starts to slow, then she pulls out, one last time.

Quentin clenches his ass, swallows a few times, trying to get enough moisture in his mouth to say, “You can- you can keep going.” It comes out hoarse and wrecked, and he'd have been embarrassed if he felt like there was any point in it.

“Not if you want me to fuck you,” Eliot says, and that sends a gratified thrill through Quentin, realizing Eliot is that close, that he'd almost come down Quentin's throat. “Still up for it?”

“Please,” Quentin says. He licks his lips. Deliberates a moment, then adds, “Please fuck me, Eliot.”

Eliot takes a step back, drops to a knee and cups the side of Quentin's face. “Yeah? You ready to get ruined for anyone else's dick, baby?”

“So fucking vain,” Quentin sighs, leans into Eliot's touch. “But, yeah, sure. Let's go with that.”

He lifts up his head so that he can see Margo, kneeling between his thighs. She looks – sweaty and exhausted, honestly. But she's touching his corset, still, running her fingers over the elaborate silver embroidery. She leans down, presses a sucking kiss against the base of his cock, so suddenly that he has to tense to keep himself from trying to buck up against her mouth.

“Let's get you turned around, honey,” Margo says and she pats his arm and- oh.

Quentin lets go of his legs. Carefully, giving himself time to lower them gently. He does _not_ want a cramp to get in the way of his plans for the rest of the night. The corset left marks on his legs, he's been pressing them down against it so tightly. And his- his dick left a wet spot on the fabric. More than one. It must have bounced around when Margo was fucking him. He hadn't even noticed, so consumed by Margo in his ass and El in his throat.

Margo and Eliot help Quentin shift around on the bed, until his legs are dangling off the side and his head is next to Margo and her strap-on. It's dripping with lube, still, and Quentin wonders if Margo put some kind of perpetual slickness spell on it or something. “I gotta make you safe,” Quentin says, after a moment. He lifts a hand up, brushes his knuckles against the underside of her breast. “Do the spell.”

“God, yes, no fucking babies here,” Margo says, and she smiles at him as she reaches down and tugs at the straps on the harness. It seems to be a lot easier to take off than it was to put on, because she's tossing it back behind them, onto the other side of the bed, and then- the first thing she does is hover her cunt over his mouth, so he lifts his head up, licks at her with firm, sure strokes of his tongue. El is petting over his legs – his bare, hairless legs – and at the curve of his waist. Quentin kisses Margo until she comes again, tensing and gasping and so wet all over his face.

She's still wearing that short, fluttering robe and Quentin reaches up and tugs at one of the dark-red folds, feels it between his fingers. Even without her crown on, she always exudes majesty and power, just from the way she holds up her chin, the way her eyes cut into anyone she's decided is beneath her. She twists around gracefully, sits back in the cradle of his hips, his dick laying out in front of her. Eliot leans over her shoulder, slides a teasing hand down her torso, stopping short of the tangle of curls over her cunt.

“Jesus, El, look at him,” Margo says, her tone openly admiring in a way that makes him squirm. “Look how much he's already let us do to him. What else do you think he'll let us do?”

Quentin wants to answer, wants to say, _anything just please touch me_ , but Margo isn't asking him.

This isn't post-sex casual chat Margo talking to him, it's El-and-Bambi talking about him. Quentin isn't always comfortable with this, has told them to stop it once or twice, when he was feeling too brittle to listen. But when he's not- when he's feeling safe, then it can be nice, hearing them talk about him when he's not supposed to say anything back.

He feels... very safe right now, with his throat sore and the fabric tight around his waist like a hug and Margo and Eliot staring at him like he's- like he's like them. Like he's pretty.

“I bet he'd enjoy a whole day on his knees,” Eliot says. Drawls, really, the words slow like taffy. “Naked, of course. It certainly would liven up those meetings with Tick and the council.”

Quentin shivers, all over.

“He'd need to keep his crown on,” Margo adds, reaching down and pressing a knuckle right under the head of his dick. “We wouldn't want anyone to forget Quentin's a king, too.”

“King Quentin the Cocksucker,” Eliot says, reflectively. “It kind of rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?”

“Oh, does it?” Margo leans against Eliot's body, turns her head so that she can lick up the side of his jaw. “I don't know. I think King Quentin the Cuntlicker sounds _much_ better.”

Eliot grabs Margo by the chin, presses a loud, smacking kiss against the side of her mouth. She grins at him, bright and happy, kisses him back. Except for how they're both just wearing open robes, they look like they could be hanging out on the couch back in the common room of the Physical Kids' Cottage.

Quentin wants to touch them so much.

He digs his fingers into the sheets and lets his gaze linger. They keep arguing about his title, but his brain tunes it out, focuses on how Eliot has a hand resting on Margo's stomach, the way Margo's legs are spread out over Quentin's hips, how Eliot's head is so close to Margo's that Quentin can see their hair sticking together. Margo's dressing gown is hiding her nipples, but he can see the inner curve of her breasts, shining a bit with sweat from how hard she'd fucked him.

Quentin breathes as deeply as he can, forces his stomach to press up against the fabric of the corset. They do this sometimes, during sex, take a cooling off period so the game doesn't end too soon. It's definitely a good idea, in this case. If Margo had just slid onto his cock after working him up that much, he's pretty sure he would have come instantly. And while Quentin definitely wants to come, more than almost anything, he wants to come with Eliot's dick in his ass.

So, for another minute or so, he breathes and listens to Margo and Eliot.

For all that they're talking to each other, they're paying attention to him, because as soon as he starts shifting on the bed, Margo settles a steadying hand on his chest. “Hey, sunshine, ready for more?”

Quentin nods and she slips her hand inside the front of the corset, tugs at him until he realizes what she wants and manages to sit up. It presses him right up against her body, so he nuzzles her neck and kisses her there, sucks a little but stays gentle. Margo likes stubble rubbed raw against her thighs and when he leaves handprints on her breasts, but she hates anything too rough near her face. He's not sure if there's a story there or if it's just a 'weird sex thing' as Margo likes to call them. Either way, it's easy enough to remember.

He feels Eliot's hand in his hair and smiles against Margo's skin.

“Can I be inside you now?” he asks her, petting her shoulders through the silky thin fabric of the robe. “You're so soft and warm inside.”

“If that's an attempt at metaphor, I will cut off your dick,” Margo says, fondly. “But, yeah. Do the spell, Coldwater. Hop to it, we don't have all night.”

Technically, they do, of course. But Quentin hops, pulling back so that he can slid his hands around her body and stroke her nipples, then down to press lightly against her clit, whisper the words of the contraceptive spell. She shivers when it takes effect. He leans in, kisses her softly, rocks his dick against her stomach. He breaks away, looks up and meets El's eyes – he can't stretch far enough up to get a kiss on his own, but he tilts his chin hopefully.

Eliot swoops down, gives him a long, dirty kiss, tugs at his hair.

“Brace yourself with your hands,” Eliot suggests, and Quentin does. Eliot loops an arm around Margo's chest, just under her breasts, and she leans back against him, letting him lift up her body. It's Eliot who reaches down and holds Quentin's dick in place, and guides it into Margo's cunt as he lowers her again. She is- so so wet, and clinging, and blood-hot all around his cock. Eliot kisses Margo's cheek, licks at the corner of her mouth, and she turns her head towards him and he kisses her and Quentin can see El's tongue in her mouth and it makes his stomach get tight.

While he makes out with Margo, Eliot uses his grip on her to rock her body against Quentin's, keeping it slow and sweet and such a fucking tease. Quentin's head drops back between his shoulder blades and he breathes as evenly as possible.

Margo holds onto Eliot's arm with both hands, looking dreamy and pleased as she lets him tongue-fuck her mouth. Quentin isn't sure he's ever seen them kiss this long before, or this intensely, but it's... it's nice. His two favorite people, making each other happy.

Quentin kinda wants to watch it forever but he also...

His hips twitch, under the weight of Margo's body, wanting more and faster.

They break out of the kiss, one of Margo's hands dropping down to tease at the buttons on Quentin's corset. “Little Q feeling abandoned?” she asks, concerned but with an edge of teasing.

“No! I- that was seriously hot,” Quentin says. “Just maybe, uh-” He hesitates. “Can I lie down?”

“Of course, you can, baby,” Eliot says, so Quentin lets himself collapse back onto the bed. Stares up at the ceiling. He can hear the spit-slick sounds of Margo and Eliot kissing again, feels the lovely clench of Margo rocking on his dick, and he relaxes into the feelings, letting the pleasure gather and drift around him. Now that he doesn't have to try to hold himself up, he can focus on not letting his own needs overwhelm him, can stay in that sweet spot of being hard for Margo without getting so caught up in the feeling that he's at risk of orgasming.

Margo's hips rise and fall, and the next time his eyes drift open, he sees Margo sucking at Eliot's neck and one of El's strong hands cupping her breast. Her breathing stutters, and she reaches up and grabs the side of his face, whispering something to him that makes him smile that sex-hazy grin Quentin loves so much. Margo leans forward, Eliot still bracing her as she bends down and kisses Quentin. She licks into his open, lax mouth and he doesn't feel like he has the coordination to kiss her back right now, so he lets her do whatever she wants without any input from him. Her body is pressed down tight onto the fabric of the corset and he hopes it doesn't hurt, all those buttons and that tightly-stitched embroidery against her skin.

Eliot leaves her there as he stands back up and Quentin can only kind of see him through the cloud of Margo's hair, but he feels him, soft touches first to where Quentin's cock is buried in Margo's pussy, then petting lower, to his hole, still wet with lube and sensitive from Margo. Eliot lifts Quentin's legs up onto the bed, and it's- it's a stretch and his cock slides a little out of Margo, not able to stay as deep with the new angle.

Margo stops kissing him, pillows her head on his chest, says, “Okay, baby Q, El's gonna fuck you soon. Let us know if it's too much, okay?” Quentin brings his arms up around her, brushes her hair out of his face, then hugs her to him, pressing his mouth against the top of her head.

Eliot starts with fingers, because he is- obviously still nervous about doing this with Quentin, despite everything. So he pushes gentle fingers into Quentin, twists and presses and explores. Drops to his knees and licks, forceful and deep. Quentin breathes into Margo's hair and tries not to come. Eliot's tongue is wet and strong and flexible, teasing the rim of muscle, and then Eliot kisses his way up Quentin's perineum, sucks his balls, licks at the base of Quentin's cock.

Then his mouth goes away and Quentin can feel the blunt head of El's dick pushing against his asshole. Quentin tightens his arms around Margo and tries to make the rest of his body... relaxed, willing, pliant. Eliot slipping inside is still- it's a lot.

His body feels- overwhelmed, so stretched out that it'll never work quite the same again, which Quentin knows is a silly thought. El's dick feels... feels nothing like the dildo had, feels hotter and bigger and- and _alive_ , twitching and swollen and easing into him so slowly and, honestly, Quentin kinda _does_ think that it might actually ruin him for anyone else's dick, like Eliot was joking it would.

Eliot keeps pausing, to let Quentin's body adjust, and Quentin keeps thinking that it means he's all the way in, but then he moves again, and Quentin's breath catches in his throat.

“Your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest,” Margo says and well, she's pressed right up against him, so she would know. “You aren't gonna have a heart attack on us, are you?”

“I'm good,” Quentin manages. “I want it. I want El's dick.” It's too much and he wants it so badly that he'll die if El doesn't give it to him. “I feel like I can- uh- feel his pulse. Inside me. Is that- is that possible?”

“Not sure,” Margo says, thoughtfully. “Sometimes you feel- hmm, phantom pleasure during sex? Your brain can make shit up that's not actually happening.”

“You are both being _much_ too philosophical right now,” Eliot tells them. “Jesus, just tell me how big my cock is, like a normal person.” But he sounds amused, not annoyed.

“Oh my goodness!” Margo's voice gets absurdly high-pitched and overwrought, the way it never actually sounds during sex. “Your dick! It's so fucking huge! El! Oh god!”

“Fuck you, Bambi,” Eliot says, cheerfully, then he slides his arms under the tangle of their bodies, gets a grip on Margo's legs, yanks her down hard and- her hips slam into Quentin's and Quentin is pulled back onto Eliot, finally all the way in, like puzzle pieces snapping together.

“Oh fuck,” Quentin whispers, barely audible, even to himself. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

This is what he'd wanted, exactly what he'd wanted, and it's _so fucking much_ and Quentin struggles not to come immediately. Eliot is right up against his pelvis, and he can feel Eliot's cock stretching him wide, feel Eliot's balls crammed against his skin. Margo is plastered across the whole front of him, her weight adding to the pressure against his stomach and rib cage where the corset is tight around him. Her pussy, her lovely perfect cunt, is wrapped around his dick completely. How can he- how can he ever just walk around having an ordinary life when he could be doing _this_ instead?

Eliot drapes himself on top of Margo, crushing her down against Quentin and making her squeak, and then stretches up far enough to capture Quentin's mouth. Quentin kisses him back, feeling desperate and wanting Eliot to stay inside him forever but also wanting...

“Fuck me,” he says against Eliot's mouth. “Fuck me, El, please.”

And he does – first slow and deliberate but, soon enough, with forceful thrusts that echo through all of them. Quentin's making a lot of noise now, but most of it isn't words, just sounds. He pets Margo's hair, clenches and flutters around Eliot's dick.

Quentin comes inside Margo and it's a shock to realize he was that close. She's stroking his chest and his cock feels sensitive and raw, but when it seems like she's about to pull off, he paws at her shoulders, begs in a broken voice for her to stay where she is.

“It's not too much?” she asks, kissing his nipple.

It _is_ too much, it's definitely too much, but he doesn't want it to stop.

“ _Please_ -” is all he can manage, pleading and needy “-please, Margo.”

He does still slide out of her, as Eliot fucks into him, as his dick softens, but she stays pressed up tight against him, and his dick rubs against her with every jolting thrust from El, and Quentin thinks he finally understands what Margo means when she talks about something 'hurting good'.

Quentin holds tight to Margo, and he's pretty sure every inch of him is going to be sore tomorrow, especially, _fuck_ , his ass, and Eliot is shoving into him so hard the bed rattles, and Quentin feels so- he feels small and overwhelmed and- and safe. He feels safe, because Eliot is, fuck, so big, and Margo is so strong and he's- he's _theirs_ and they'll never let anything hurt him for real, not even himself.

He doesn't actually- doesn't actually feel Eliot come, but he hears that delighted, punched-out gasp, sees El's blissful smile, and then Eliot is touching his damp hair and telling him what a lovely, perfect boy he is.

Eliot pulls out of him and _that_ Quentin does feel, empty and wet and twitching around air.

Quentin bites down on his lip when he feels Eliot's fingers pressing back in, back inside where everything feels dialed up to a thousand. “ _El_ ,” he says. Eliot's petting stops and Quentin breathes in and out, can't manage to say anything else. Slowly, cautiously, Eliot starts rubbing inside him again and Quentin kinda feels like he might actually pass out, but he doesn't- doesn't want Eliot to take his fingers away.

“You ready for the corset to come off?” Margo asks, folding her arms on top of his chest and propping her chin up so she can peer down at him.

“I- uh,” Quentin licks his lips, fights back a gasp when he feels Eliot's fingers gliding across his prostate. “Fuck. I- No. I like it. Um- I think- I think I ruined it, though. I got- it's messy.”

“If we can't clean it, we'll get you a new one made,” Margo says, and she tilts her hips, presses down against his cock and makes him whimper. “You're so sensitive right now, little Q.” She sounds thrilled about it, in a sleepy, satisfied way. “You like your dick being touched when it's soft and used? You like El sticking his fingers in your ass after he's come inside you and you're all slick and sore?”

There's no point in pretending he doesn't, so Quentin just says, “Yeah. I... yeah.”

They caress him for a while longer, make him tremble and shiver. Margo closes her teeth around his nipple, doesn't bite, just holds on with a light pressure as her tongue teases at him. Her hand creeps down between their bodies and she circles her thumb over the head of his cock. Eliot is licking at him again, at the spasming, stretched out rim of muscle, while his fingers press and slide against the hyper-sensitive places inside.

Quentin just breathes, shaky and exhausted, his body trying helplessly to jerk away from the overload of sensation on both sides.

Finally, finally, he says, “I can't- I- I can't-”

Margo presses one last kiss to his chest, lifts herself off him on hands and knees, letting his cock lay limp against his belly. Eliot slides his fingers out, delicately. Margo leans forward over Quentin's body, gives him a soft kiss he returns as best he can, clumsy and weak.

Eliot gets up, fetches some wet towels, and then he and Margo carefully remove the corset from Quentin's body and wipe him clean while he tries not to shudder too hard. Margo and Eliot exchange their sweat-soaked robes for new, fluffier ones and cuddle up next to Quentin in the bed.

“So, we've got a lot of new things to talk about,” Margo says. Her hand is, very lightly, cupping his dick. “Pretty good response with the makeup and especially the corset, yeah? You liked that?”

“Uh-huh,” Quentin agrees, his head resting on Eliot's arm. “I did feel- um. I didn't feel silly, wearing it. It was... hot, I guess. But more than that, it was... safe? Comforting? Does that make sense?”

“I'm glad you felt safe,” Eliot says, gently. “That you trust us to take care of you like that.” There's a slight hesitation, then Eliot adds, “It's intimidating, though.”

“Why?” It's strange to think of anything honestly intimidating either Eliot or Margo. From the moment he met them, they've been able to turn any situation around for the better, no matter how strange or scary it might have started out.

“It's a lot of responsibility to put in someone's hands, baby Q,” Eliot says. He strokes Quentin's hair, cups his cheek. “It kinda seems like you might be into breath-play? Where we restrict how much you breathe?”

Quentin looks down, away from Eliot's eyes, tries to figure out what to say. He starts with “Yes?” but that doesn't feel like enough, so he adds, “I like- I trust you.” More than he trusts himself, definitely.

“If that's something you want, we want to try to give it to you,” Margo says, pressing her cheek against his back. “But, dumpling? Before we do anything with it again, I want to go back to Earth, do some research. And we'll definitely want you to have a hand gesture for when you can't talk.”

“Sorry I can't go with you to help out,” Eliot says, wistfully. Eliot doesn't complain often about the magical clause that prevents the High King from leaving Fillory but it's obvious how much it still bothers him. Quentin gives him a comforting kiss, wishes he could do more. Eliot smiles at him, soft and thankful. “We also, I think, need to have a long conversation about soft limits and how they're different from hard limits, right, Bambi?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Margo says. She presses her fingers down against Quentin's dick, makes his breath catch. “That's something we'll want you to have a safeword for, I think, but... you like being pushed a little, don't you, honey? You want us to nudge you out of your comfort zone, every now and then?”

And honestly that is... that is what they've done to him this entire time, from the moment Eliot met him that first day on the Brakebills lawn. They shoved their way into his life and made a place for themselves and now he isn't really sure who he'd be, if they were gone. Eliot seems to read that in his expression, because he nods.

“So, that's your homework,” Eliot says and Quentin must make a face, because Eliot laughs, rich and warm, and catches him by the chin, thumb teasing at his lower lip. “Pick out a safeword – you'll want a word you'll remember but that wouldn't come up naturally during sex – and think about some kind of hand gesture you could do fairly easily that would catch our attention in a scene. Margo and I will research safety and logistics. And when we're all ready, we'll sit down together and figure out which of your limits are hard ones and which are soft.”

“Homework for sex,” Quentin grumbles, but not too loudly. “Ridiculous.”

“You'll thank us later,” Margo says, with another light brush up along his dick. “Trust us.”

And, well, yes. That's the thing, really. He does. He absolutely does.


End file.
